


Ecstasy

by t0talcha0s



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Death, Decapitation, Drowning, Fights, Gore, Guilt, Hoo alright this is hella fucked up let's tag this shit, Horror, M/M, Murder, Organs, POV Hal, Violence, amiright ladies, but he never stays dead, godtiers, like it's all death, references to Frankenstein, skin-peeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0talcha0s/pseuds/t0talcha0s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This first time you're terrified and confused, but the look on his face is rapturous. You're disgusted and scared and enraged, but you comply so easily. Which one of you is truly the monster?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> And some miscellaneous quotes to go with this story.
> 
> "She hits like ecstasy"   
>  \-   
>  "it's wrong but surely worse to leave."- Greek Tragedy. The Wombats 
> 
> "When the good feels bad but the bad feels better." - Angel Haze 'planes fly'
> 
> Lucky Dr. Frankenstein. - sarcastic anonymous

When Dirk comes back up, still reeling from one of your punches, lip split and eye blackening from another one of your hits, he's never looked happier, a soft smile bleeding across his face, posture relaxed, which is in itself impressive. He lunges towards you, but it's purposefully weak, and you give him what he wants in the form of a strong hit to the stomach, before you slap his face and grab his shoulder hard enough to bruise it. 

"I'm stopping this now. This has to hurt like hell."

"I don't want to stop, pain is just imperfection leaving the body." You're almost taken aback,l but you're used to his shit. 

"If you got what you wanted you'd be a pile of viscera and pathetic human bones right now." He shrugs. "Seriously Dirk, go clean yourself up. It's pitiful." His smile falls off his face and he gives a quiet groan.

"Fucking coward." You shove him towards the door, pressing into the bruise you left there just to appease him. 

"Moment's gone." He grumbles like a child with his toy taken away as you manage to force him into the shower and get him cleaned up. Once he's in his pajamas, cuts and bruises cleaned, you lay him in bed and sigh. "What are you punishing yourself for this time?" 

"That's not what this is." 

"Sure it isn't, I'm not kidding, what's got you craving being a bloody pulp?" 

"Some shit happened."

"I got that." 

"It feels great."

"Elaborate." His face relaxes and you see the hints of a smile, eyes closed.

"God, it's like a drug. It hurts so fucking terribly, and I can't think and it's." He pauses. "It's the best fucking feeling." You throw his blanket onto him and you leave. 

-

You break his fingers, he asked you to, he looks so pleased. 

His fingers heal, you're a monster, look at what you've done to him. 

"Dirk I'm going to end up killing you if you keep up with this. This isn't healthy."

"That sounds wonderful." 

-

It's been years, you haven't seen him, you haven't hurt him, and you're so thankful. Then you see him again, and you're terrified. He wears a ridiculous costume, burgundy puffy pants and shirt, white tights, a small crown atop his immaculate hair. The costume's not what you're afraid of though. You're not afraid of his soul sucking powers, you don't have a soul, not technically. No, you're afraid because the rules of godtier death. Only if it's heroic or just. This isn't fair. 

You press your thumbs against his windpipe, effectively cutting off his airflow, and he's never looked more happy or serene. Then the life flickers from his eyes, and you wait for a while until he's back. Alive and choking and the first things out of his mouth are,

"Thank you" and "yes." 

-

You reenact the old fights the two of you had, but much more drastically. In the end he's beaten bloody on the ground and your casing is scratched. Watching his body contort and heal, it's disgusting. If you has the ability to vomit you're sure you would. He reawakens with a happy sigh and he cracks his newly reformed spine into place. Some sick, twisted part of you wishes he would stay dead. Wishes that when you poison him and watch him convulse before falling dead, vomiting when he lives again, that you didn't find it so insanely appealing to see it happen again. You wish that when you hold him down in the tub and watch his lungs fill, and his breath be whisked away, and his face turn blue, that you didn't think it was a good look for him.

-

You simultaneous adore and despise when you cut him open. Flay open his ribs as he grabs the sheets and bites down on a bit of cloth. You pull him apart like he put you together. And when you hold his painfully human heart in your cold metallic hands, you watch the beat gently slow to a stop. It's so beautiful, so vulnerable, pathetic and pitiful. Nothing nearly so elegant as your heart of wire and steel, weak, and bloody, and stupid. His heart is awful and as it beats once in your hands, pumping blood again, you reel away like it was melting your casing. It hits back into his chest with a wet slap and soon he's coming back to you, his chest sealing, and it's horrifying and what a monster he is. What devil's overcome your senses. You'd pray to god but he's the god now. He is your Frankenstein's monster and he is disgusting and of course the villagers would run from such a horror. 

-

It's when he comes to you again as he always does, shaking and born anew, and he smiles like he has the universe under his command do you finally choke out,

"Why me?" Of course it doesn't sound strained, your artificial larynx always sounding perfect. "Why not Roxy or Jake or Jane, why the fuck do I have to do this?" As you speak you recall, it wasn't Frankenstein's monster to blame. 

"They all wouldn't." His stretches, and each and every time his new joints pop into place you want to force them out of their places, want him broken and bleeding. How could he? How could you? You are a damned Dr. Frankenstein to create this monster. Yet he created you. A paradoxical damnation. "Jake and Jane and Roxy would refuse, and if they hypothetically agreed the psychological affects would be too trying for them. You're machine, not man, I know your psyche well enough to know you're guilty, but only because you're enjoying it." He smirks at you, and the urge to rip his throat out, to see his pathetic lungs struggle again for breath, to find a way to make his death heroic or just, simply grows. You want him dead you want him gone and heroic and just and away from you. He's made you a monster, he's a devil, look at what he's done to you. 

\- 

When you decapitate him, you make sure the blade is dull. He doesn't deserve to live. You don't deserve to kill him. What monsters are you both. 

One day you slowly peel away his skin, see his pitiful organs work to keep him alive before he slowly struggles to death. 

Another, you snap each of his ribs inward, puncturing every organ calling his chest home. 

You burn him, you beat him, each and every way you can think to kill him you do. It always leaves you wishing you had the capability to vomit or gasp out your breaths, but you can't. You can do nothing but sneer in pity, feel dread in your guilt. Wish you could die with him. Wish you could kill him permanently. He adores each and every death and it sickens you. So you remain as you are. Two paradoxical monsters at the end of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> So I went to see the wombats in concert. It was fucking fabulous. Hope you enjoyed this disaster. Input is always adored.  
> I'm on tumblr at Barefootcosplayer if you want to send me your disgusted regards.


End file.
